POV Bella
The urgent shaking pulls me from sleep like hands dragging me from deep water. My parents' faces swim into focus above me, their expressions wild and desperate in a way I've never seen before—hope and terror twisted together into something almost unrecognizable.
"Bella, wake up." My mother's voice cracks with emotion. "They found a match."
The words don't penetrate immediately. I blink, certain I'm still dreaming.
"A perfect donor heart," my father adds, his businessman's composure completely shattered. "We need to go now. Right now."
The world tilts. After years of waiting, of being told the odds were astronomical, of watching my parents' faces dim every time another potential match fell through—suddenly salvation appears in the middle of the night like some twisted fairy tale.
"Are you serious?" I sit up too quickly, my chest protesting with familiar pain. "This is real?"
"The transplant team is prepping," my mother says, tears streaming down her face as she throws clothes at me. "We have a four-hour window."
I start crying—ugly, desperate tears that have been building for years. This is it. This is my chance to live.
Zane appears in my doorway, already dressed, keys jingling in his shaking hands. "Car's running. Let's go save your life."
During the frantic drive to the hospital, I pull out my phone with trembling fingers. No messages from Ajax, which strikes me as strange—he always texts after races, even just a quick "won" or "alive." But adrenaline probably has him celebrating with Jake and the crew.
I type quickly: Going to the hospital. Getting a new heart that will love you even more. Hope you won like you always do.
Then another message: I love you.
I fire off a text to Camila: IT'S HAPPENING. They found a heart. I'm going to live.
We fishtail to the curb and the ER doors bloom open. A nurse snaps a bracelet onto my wrist, someone else steers a wheelchair, my phone buzzes—Camila in all caps—and I shove it back into my bag. The doors swallow me into bright light, and everything starts moving at once.
The hospital becomes controlled chaos—consent forms thrust at me, anesthesia consultations, surgical prep teams moving with military precision. Nurses prick my arms for blood work while doctors explain procedures I can barely comprehend through the haze of disbelief.
"Timeline?" my father demands, his corporate authority bleeding through even here.
"Surgery begins in two hours," the surgeon replies. "Eight to ten hours for the procedure, then recovery."
I resist calling Ajax, telling myself he needs rest after the race, that I'll surprise him with my new, healthy heart when I wake up. The thought of seeing his face when he realizes I'm no longer dying makes me smile even as they wheel me toward the operating room.
"See you on the other side," Zane says, squeezing my hand.
The anesthesia takes hold like warm water closing over my head, and I drift away thinking of Ajax's hands on my waist during our waltz practice, how we'll finally have all the time in the world.
* * *
Consciousness returns slowly, swimming up through layers of medication fog. My chest aches with a different pain than I've known for years—surgical rather than failing, sharp rather than the dull throb of a dying heart. But underneath the pain, something extraordinary: a strong, steady rhythm I haven't felt since I was sixteen.
"Welcome back." The surgeon's voice filters through the haze. "The transplant was a complete success. Perfect integration, no rejection signs. You're going to have a full life, Bella."
A full life. The words repeat in my mind like a mantra.
My family enters wearing full protective gear, my compromised immune system requiring extreme precautions for the next several weeks. Through their masks and face shields, I can see tears of joy, feel their relief radiating through the sterile room like heat.
"How do you feel?" my mother asks, her voice muffled but emotional.
"Like I can breathe," I say, and it's true. "Like I can actually breathe for the first time in years."
"The donor was a perfect match," the surgeon explains. "Young, healthy heart in excellent condition. You couldn't have asked for better."
Young and healthy. Some family, somewhere, is grieving the loss that gave me life. The weight of that settles over me like a blanket.
"We'll start you on anti-rejection medications today," the doctor continues. "You'll need them for life, but that's a small price for a lifetime, isn't it?"
He gives my mother a gentle nod, squeezes my father’s shoulder, and slips out—leaving me and my family alone in the room.
A lifetime with Ajax. The thought fills me with explosive joy.
I can't help myself: "Is Ajax here? Did Zane have to physically restrain him from charging into surgery? Or did you kick him out of the waiting room entirely?"
The silence that follows feels wrong, loaded with tension that has nothing to do with medical complications. My family exchanges looks that make my newly transplanted heart skip with sudden fear.
"We'll talk about it later," Zane says carefully, his voice strangely formal. "You need to focus on recovery right now."
"Talk about what?" Ice spreads through my veins despite the warm blankets. "Where is he? Why isn't he here?"
"Bella—"
"Tell me now," I demand, my voice rising despite the pain it causes. "What's wrong? Where is Ajax?"
The heart monitor beside my bed begins beeping faster, reflecting the panic building in my chest. My mother reaches for my hand, but I pull away.
"What happened?" The words tear from my throat like broken glass. "Tell me what happened!"